


A Distraction

by Anonymous



Category: Jonathan Strange & Mr Norrell (TV), Jonathan Strange & Mr Norrell - Susanna Clarke
Genre: I listed all the possible permutations of this threesome, Magical Shenanigans, Multi, Threesome - M/M/M, because there's flavors of all three permutations to be found here, due to the nature of magically fueled sex, vaguely dubcon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-05
Updated: 2020-03-05
Packaged: 2021-02-28 18:20:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,828
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23021623
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: A spell goes awry, and Childermass has to deal with the situation.  The two enchanted magicians are less than helpful.  Strange/Norrell/Childermass PWP with bonus feelings from all sides.  Originally posted to the JS&MN kink meme.
Relationships: Gilbert Norrell/Jonathan Strange, John Childermass/Gilbert Norrell, John Childermass/Gilbert Norrell/Jonathan Strange, John Childermass/Jonathan Strange
Comments: 6
Kudos: 20
Collections: Anonymous





	A Distraction

The first meeting of Jonathan Strange and Gilbert Norrell had been unexpected for Strange and the most utter and transporting delight for Norrell. For John Childermass, who sat in the corner and said nothing at all during their exchange, it had been a shock, although he would never admit to such. In his twenty-six years of service with Mr Norrell, there was one state in which he had never seen his master, and was thankful for it. This, of course, was the state of being utterly besotted, for so Norrell was, though Childermass doubted that he recognized his condition as such. 

He had long suspected such a peculiarity of character in his master, as it reflected certain tendencies of his own. Still, after twenty-six years it appeared that Mr Norrell refused to acknowledge or act upon those tendencies, and so they were as moot a point as whether or not he could grow a beard, for neither was likely to be attempted, so neither was of any great concern to his man of business.

And yet, with Norrell well settled into his middle years, he suddenly and without warning elected to fall in love. Not only to fall in love, which might be dealt with in a quiet and discreet manner if the object of his affections were to be the sort inclined to reciprocate, but to fall in love with a married man some years Childermass’ junior. And while Mr Norrell had not the remarkable bad taste to become infatuated with a truly young man-for Strange was obviously and comfortably past his thirtieth year-there was still what might be approaching two decades and a wife between them.

It was all very inconvenient. 

Luckily for Childermass, his master was nothing if not indecisive. His overtures to Strange were of the most peculiar sort to those who did not know Mr Norrell: the loan of several books being the most overt, though not the only. Norrell had a tendency to stand far closer to Strange than was ever his wont before. During the first instance in which they cast a spell meant for two, the ritual had required the holding of hands (“The first time in centuries such a thing has been possible, Mr Strange! The first time in centuries!”), and Childermass had been worried Mr Norrell might swoon from happiness.

Childermass enjoyed believing himself a man not given to such infatuations. Indeed, although he had felt lust quite a few times in his life, and had acted accordingly if the situation was ideal, such love seemed to him quite alien and more than a bit laughable. Certainly it was dangerous, for it opened Mr Norrell up to any number of hurts to which he had previously been immune. Childermass therefore was torn between amusement at this new development and a need to protect his employer from himself. While watching Norrell fall over himself in eager adoration was, to Childermass, the most amusing show in all of London, such actions when taken in the company of one Henry Lascelles or even Christopher Drawlight could spell disaster. 

Norrell himself was adept at keeping Lascelles and Drawlight away from the library during Strange’s lessons by way of tedious lectures to which Childermass had become immune. Strange was not, and veered throughout them between boredom and the occasional intrigue. This, at least, was good for Norrell, as it tended to break the lecture in twain and erupt from it a long discussion and a flurry of pages as the two magicians indulged themselves. 

Norrell began to tailor his lectures to elicit such responses, and these discussions became more and more dominant during their interactions. Childermass did have to acknowledge that such conversations improved Norrell’s capacity for discourse, although his ability to converse upon any subject that was not magical shewed no signs of similar improvement. Still, it kept Norrell very happy indeed, and even Strange shewed an increasing interest and passion for the subject. He consumed books at a rate that made Mr Norrell proud and worried at the same time, for there were many books Norrell would not lend Strange, as they were dangerous, and Strange was liable to use such volumes in inadvisable ways.

The most dangerous of such tomes had remained at Hurtfew, and well out of Strange’s reach, but those at Hanover Square were available, and Mr Norrell’s reluctance was easily overcome by Strange’s enthusiasm and his smile.

It was this combination of adoration and weakness that led Norrell to fetch one of his more obscure tomes down from the top shelf, where he kept those potent books of magic. This pricked at Childermass’ interest, for though his memory was prodigious, he could not remember Norrell referring to this particular volume, one _Naturam in Cordibus Hominum, et Machinationes Eius_ by Mortimer Tremayne. This particular book had been in Mr Norrell’s collection even before Childermass had joined his service, and was a tome to which he had only ever obliquely referred. Much of it, to Childermass’ recollection, was considered by Sutton-Grove to border on black magic.

He had been engrossed in his own business, and now regretted his ignorance of the factors which had led Norrell to fetch this particular book. Certainly it would have required great charm on Strange’s part, and indeed Norrell was pinked all the way to his ears. He was still cautious enough to leaf through the book on his own, before settling on the passage of interest. 

He joined Strange at the central table in the room, Strange coming about it to look over Norrell’s shoulder. They were, Childermass realized, discussing magical methods of distraction. “Ah!” Norrell said. “You see, Mr Strange, such things are possible, although in no way guaranteed. For the more fervent the interest one wishes to divert, the more powerful the spell must be.”

Strange leaned over further to touch one particular passage, causing Norrell to close his eyes for a moment too long. Childermass restrained his desire to roll his eyes only through the greatest application of willpower. People in love were truly the most ridiculous on earth.

“You must agree, though, that such a spell would be of greatest use when attempting to escape those who would solicit our services for private gain,” Strange said. “Why, only the other day a man approached me on the street, sir. On the street! He wished to contract me to turn his mother-in-law into a goose.”

“How perfectly dreadful,” Norrell agreed, although Childermass noted that his attention was not terribly much upon the story as it was the body at his back.

“If we could but modify this spell to turn their attention for the moment it would take for us to make good our escape, it would save us a great many awkward encounters.” Strange was engrossed in the spell, and murmuring to himself.

Childermass realized only a moment before Norrell did that he was, in fact, reading aloud the incantation. Childermass shot to his feet to interrupt before something unexpected and magical were to occur due to Strange’s lapse, even as Mr Norrell squeaked, “Mr Strange! You must not—”

And then poor Mr Norrell was quite distracted indeed, for the spell promptly sent Strange’s jacket, waistcoat, and shirt to places unknown, leaving him bared to the waist but for a neckcloth that hung untied from his shoulders. Childermass could not but observe the way Mr Norrell’s eyes went as wide as they could as he fell back against a bared chest, and one of his flailing hands landed upon Strange’s side. He had not looked back yet, but that his pupil was now in a state of partial undress was plain to him.

“Oh dear,” Strange said.

Mr Norrell said nothing, which was just as well, for Childermass doubted his ability to string together any coherent sentiment while in such a position.

“Is it warm in this room?” Strange asked. He sounded different. Childermass cocked his head as he realized that it was the same abstraction he often acquired when working his way through Norrell’s particularly obtuse books. “I find the air rather stifling of a sudden.”

“Oh?” Mr Norrell managed. “I had thought you might find it cold.”

“No indeed.” Mr Strange rubbed a hand across his face. He did not seem at all put out for having lost half his clothing. “What were we discussing, sir? I find that I cannot remember it.”

“We were discussing … we were …” Strange’s hand, to Childermass’ great surprize, came up to examine Mr Norrell’s collar. He traced it with his fingers, and then picked the knot apart. 

“Ah,” Strange said. “This is a fine neckcloth, sir. Where did you procure it?”

“I … I am not certain. I have owned it for many years.”

“That would explain its particular softness.” He picked at the knot until it came undone, and then he unwound it from Norrell’s throat. “Sir, I cannot say it for certain, but I believe my sense of touch to be amplified, for I have never felt anything so exquisite as this cloth!”

Mr Norrell was not listening to to this particular discourse on the pleasures of silk, for he was all a-tremble, and his head had fallen back against Strange’s shoulder. 

Strange seemed to realize this quite suddenly, for he dropped the cloth from his hand and then brushed Norrell’s cap off to rub at his hair. “This too,” he said, “has quite the most extraordinary texture.”

When Norrell managed to open his eyes, they were liquid with need. “Jonathan,” he gasped out.

Strange looked startled, then fascinated. He bent down, and before Childermass could do anything, had pressed his mouth to Norrell’s. The angle was awkward, but neither seemed to mind, nor notice that they had a very unwilling audience. It struck Childermass that he did not belong in the room for this, for its rapid development spoke of other acts he had neither any business witnessing, nor any desire to see. It also spoke of the greatest incaution, for there were servants in the house, as well as both Lascelles and Drawlight.

Mr Strange laid hold of Norrell’s jaw and tilted it in such a way that they both let out noises of approval. Someone was bound to hear something.

Childermass bypassed them on his rapid way to the door, already conjuring the best means of clearing the house. The servants would be biddable enough, particularly if given a half-day off with pay (and they would be paid, for his master’s folly was not reason to strip them of their livelihoods). Lascelles and Drawlight, though, were greater challenges.

He encountered Davey first, and a quick word in his ear sent him scurrying to find the other servants and vacate the house. He was a good lad, and had the excellent tendency to follow Childermass’ instructions to the letter.

Lascelles and Drawlight were taking tea in the sitting room, Lascelles looking over the newest printing of _The Friends of English Magic_ while Drawlight indulged in the seedcakes. They both looked up at Childermass’ abrupt intrusion, Lascelles with contempt and Drawlight with dim curiosity.

“Mr Norrell and Mr Strange have cast a spell that has proven more dangerous than expected,” Childermass said. “They ask you to vacate the house for some hours, until the threat has passed.”

That was enough for Drawlight, who rose and made for the door without hesitation. Very little made him move faster than a threat against his person. But Lascelles was more suspicious, and as he rose to his feet, it was with narrowed eyes. “This has not happened before,” he said. He was dubious, Childermass knew, but he had little time to care beyond the possibilities of what Lascelles might do with that suspicion.

“It has happened now,” Childermass said. To deal with a man like Lascelles, a man had to take risks. “I have delivered Mr Norrell’s request. Will you leave, or shall I have him interrupt his work to come out here and deliver that request himself?”

Lascelles stepped in closer to Childermass, continuing to stare at him. Several long seconds passed as Lascelles studied him, and Childermass maintained his bored façade. At last, Lascelles drew back and said, “Very well. Tell Norrell that I shall return in a few hours, and will expect an explanation for this insulting treatment.”

“I am sure he will be more than willing to explain why he saved your life when next you are here,” Childermass answered him. Lascelles’ lip curled, and for a moment he seemed that he would engage in a war of insults, but then his expression shuttered and he turned to leave. Childermass watched him all the way to the door.

As soon as Lascelles was out, Childermass turned the key in the lock and threw the bolt. Then he went through the to kitchen and secured the back door. The windows were all of them locked as a matter of course, and many of the curtains already drawn.

The curtains. Childermass let out a groan of regret, for it was Mr Norrell’s custom to open the curtains for Strange’s lessons, and so work in natural light. Though the windows were elevated some distance from the ground, an enterprising man-or more likely a lad Lascelles had hired for the task-could scale the wall and peer inside. The curtains would need to be drawn, and to do that Childermass was going to get more of a show than he had wished. 

If he had not the protective instincts toward Mr Norrell that twenty-six years in service had engendered, he would not have ventured back into the library. If he did not care about the future of English magic and, though he was loath to admit it, about Gilbert Norrell himself, he would have walked out with the others and allowed the magicians to suffer whatever consequences of their magical folly there might be. But John Childermass was more loyal than he cared to admit. He set his jaw, steeled his resolve, and slipped into the library under cover of shadows. 

To his relief, Strange remained in much the same state as Childermass had last seen him. Norrell remained largely clothed, with neckcloth removed and shirt mussed, but otherwise still on. Strange had somehow managed to convince Norrell to perch on the edge of the table, and Norrell’s legs were wrapped about Strange in a manner that left no doubt as to where and to what degree they were pressed together. The noises they made were soft, muffled as they were by kisses, but still audible enough that Childermass was glad he’d cleared the house. For such noises were quite unmistakable, even if one had not heard such a noise come from that particular throat before.

Childermass drew the first curtain, further away from the two magicians. They did not remark upon his actions, nor did they seem to notice that there existed anyone else in the room but themselves. Thanking the Raven King for small magical mercies, Childermass slunk over to the other window and drew those curtains too.

He had just settled them so as to permit not even a glimpse into the library when a hand fell upon his shoulder. Childermass turned slowly, needing time to evaluate the situation. It was Strange who stood before him, Norrell remaining on the table in a state of considerable disarray. 

“My dear Mr Childermass,” Strange said in warmest tones, “there is no need to remain in the shadows, sir. You are more than welcome to join us.”

Childermass had moved silently to avoid any embarrassment. He had not considered even the remotest possibility of being invited to join in. That was one particular vice he had never indulged, nor had he any inclinations to do so under such delicate circumstances. There were too many variables for which he could not account, and far too much in the control of magic rather than men. Whatever happened in this room would be a regret, he had no doubt, and he opened his mouth to say just that in the bluntest terms politeness allowed him.

He was not permitted to speak, however, as Strange took this as an opportunity and pressed his mouth against Childermass’. Childermass did not move, his eyes meeting and holding Norrell’s surprized but intrigued gaze.

Strange had some talent at kissing, Childermass would own. He was persuasive, if a bit less forward than Childermass himself preferred. He found himself distracted by the wetness of it, and by Strange’s hands in his hair. He usually disliked such gestures, as they often led to tangling and discomfort, but Strange did neither, so Childermass found himself enjoying the fingers playing against his scalp. Jonathan Strange, to no one’s surprize, kissed like a gentleman.

With a growl, he reversed their positions to shove Strange up against the wall, insinuating his knee betwixt Strange’s thighs, and pressing up against him to kiss him as one who had never been and never would be a gentleman. He kissed Strange as he had kissed paramours in back alleys, under the dimmest lights they could find. He kissed Strange with a filthy abandon, his fingers digging into Strange’s bared shoulders, and Strange returned his gesture with eagerness and a shaky moan of enjoyment.

Then, just as soon as he had begun, Childermass wrenched himself back and stumbled a few steps to a safer distance. He shook his head, but it would not clear. The rational part of him-normally the only part that was given any heed-was oddly muted, but warned of the magic of touch. It warned of regrets. He needed to heed such warnings, as they had saved his life many times in the past.

“Mr Strange,” he rasped, his voice having fallen to its lowest register. “I believe this is something better left between you and Mr Norrell. I need not be here.”

“No, of course you need not. But do you want to be here?”

Just a minute before, he had not. He remembered wishing to draw the curtains and then leave before notice. But standing there, he could not remember why. 

“Childermass?” he heard behind him.

He turned to find Mr Norrell standing there, looking up at him with open curiosity. It was not a plea, but nor was it a rejection. He seemed, if anything, simply interested in what Childermass would choose. He was certainly not repulsed by the idea of Childermass joining them. This seemed quite odd, for a great many things frightened or repulsed him. For him to stand, fearless, and to look Childermass in the eye seemed both disconcerting and alluring. 

Childermass knew Gilbert Norrell well enough to tell that a great deal of that fearlessness sprang from an utter incomprehension about what, precisely, was happening. This, infuriatingly, triggered some great and protective tenderness in Childermass that he enjoyed believing himself incapable of feeling at most times. But it was there, forever lurking beneath his mocking words and indifferent amusement. It was there in his inadvisable foray back into the library to guarantee his master’s safety from scandal.

He laid his hands against Norrell’s jaw, and then pressed his lips lightly to that small and familiar mouth. While he felt the greatest desire to debauch Strange, and felt no particular need to be gentle with him as he did so, he was overcome with the knowledge that Mr Norrell needed to be handled with greatest care. He felt Norrell’s fingers touch his jaw lightly, and then stroked up to his ears. Childermass groaned, tilted his head, and then allowed himself to kiss Norrell deeply and thoroughly. 

He felt Strange press against his back, and his mouth fasten upon what little he could reach of Childermass’ neck. His hands were working the knot of Childermass’ cravat, and the tiny yet rational part of John Childermass was cursing the situation in language which would have made him blush even in his youth. Both the rational and the irrational parts of him agreed that he needed to guarantee that he was the one in control of this situation, for Norrell had not a clew what he was doing, and Strange was not entirely to be trusted to handle him with the delicacy that was required. 

So Childermass turned, putting Norrell between himself and Strange without breaking their kiss. Strange took this well, and reapplied himself to unbuttoning Norrell’s shirt, his fingers teasing the skin beneath and making Norrell blink up at Childermass in utmost desperation.

Childermass used the opening Strange was creating to stroke Norrell’s shoulders and chest. Strange was distracted by the sound Norrell made at that, and left off unbuttoning to run his hands against Norrell’s stomach. Norrell stood between them, utterly paralyzed by the doubled sensations. Childermass broke their kiss to press his mouth against the column of Norrell’s throat, and Norrell’s head fell back against Strange, allowing them to resume their own kisses. One of Norrell’s hands was tangled in Childermass’ shirt, while the other buried itself in Strange’s hair.

Without thought as to the consequences, Childermass went to his knees and busied himself with the buttons on Norrell’s breeches. Norrell realized what he was about and made a frantic sound into Strange’s mouth. Strange opened his eyes and watched Childermass with interest.

“Neither of you have any idea what you are doing, do you?” Childermass asked, grinning up at the two magicians, the look of startled fascination mirrored upon their faces. 

“I say,” Strange said, “I've been married some years now!”

Norrell blinked, and a fleeting look of horror passed across his face that Childermass wanted to soothe away before it could take root. That particular effort would be greatly aided by shutting Jonathan Strange’s mouth, or putting it to better use. 

“Right,” he said, and stood back up. Norrell said his name in distress, but it was cut off by his surprize when Childermass turned him and his half-unbuttoned breeches about to face Strange. He looked at Strange with a challenge in his eye and said, “Go on, then.”

Strange blinked. “Well,” he admitted, “I have little experience in this.”

“Then there is no time like the present to learn, sir,” Childermass said.

Provocation seemed just the thing, for Strange went to his knees with a glare and applied himself to Mr Norrell’s buttons. Norrell himself looked down at his pupil, hissed a gasp, and looked up at Childermass.

Childermass whispered, “All shall be well,” to him.

And then Strange got past Norrell’s breeches, pushed away his smallclothes, and Childermass was obliged to support Mr Norrell as Strange applied his mouth with all diligence. Norrell let out a quavering cry of shock, his eyes wide and frantic as he stared down at the sight. 

Strange was not adept, as Childermass had suspected. More than once, his enthusiasm outweighed his talents, and Norrell winced at what was likely the application of teeth.

Childermass sighed, judging that this was not going as well as it ought, due largely to Strange’s eager incompetence. “It appears,” he said, pressing Norrell back to the table once more, and out of Strange’s reach, “that you are in need of teaching, Mr Strange.”

“I thought I was doing rather well,” Strange said.

“You were not.” Childermass glanced at Norrell and said, “One moment, sir, and I’ll be right back to you.”

Then he shoved Strange closer to Norrell, still on his knees. Strange took up his place and looked to Childermass for his next instruction. The realization of control thrilled through Childermass. He moved in close to Strange, pressing a sloppy kiss to his mouth, then moved down Strange’s chest, biting as he folded himself down toward his destination. Strange let out a groan, and Norrell a ragged gasp. Childermass had to make Strange shift about to dispose of his breeches and undergarments, but still made fairly quick work of it. Once Strange was knelt back close to the table, and Childermass had room to maneuver, he took hold of Strange's prick and said, “Do not try everything at once.”

At this he ran the flat of his tongue up the underside of Strange’s prick, hearing the gasps above him. “Start small and easy,” he said, following his tongue with light kisses, “until you’ve got your courage up. And then …” He pressed his lips to the slit at the tip, tasting the bitterness. It had been years since he’d tasted that, as he’d had little enough time for dalliances even in Yorkshire. Still, it was a talent he was unlikely to forget, and from Strange’s harsh breathing he could not be doing too poorly. 

He opened his mouth and did his level best to take Strange to pieces.

“Good lord,” Norrell whispered. Strange did not manage such coherence, but seemed to agree.

Childermass had to hold Strange’s hips still, gripping tightly enough that there might well be marks left behind. He was not usually so careless, he thought, but such caution seemed to him a very unimportant thing. 

He felt Strange’s hand in his hair once more, and remembered then what he had been about. He drew off Strange’s prick, and grinned at the look of disappointment on Strange’s face. “Do you intend to just sit there, Mr Strange?” Childermass asked. “This was supposed to be teaching you.”

Strange stared at him in dumb amazement for a moment, before Childermass pulled himself back up to kneeling, and laced his own fingers through Strange’s hair. With a press, he guided Strange’s mouth to Norrell’s prick. “Now, sir, do as I did.”

He held Strange more out of enjoyment than true guidance as he watched the man take Norrell in hand and lick sloppy trails up him, not just on the underside but all over. Childermass’ breath hitched at the sight, and the way that one of Norrell’s dainty hands joined his own in Strange’s hair. 

“Kiss him,” Childermass said. He watched with greedy eyes as Strange complied, pressing feather kisses up Norrell’s length before at last pressing first lips, then tongue to the head. He let out a curious noise, probably at the taste of it. Norrell was pressing his other hand to his mouth to stifle the sounds he was making. 

Strange drew back for a moment, shot Norrell a grin, and said, “I believe I am feeling sufficiently courageous, sir.” Then he slipped his lips about Norrell’s prick and pressed forward. Too far forward, as it was, because he drew away coughing. “Perhaps too courageous,” he wheezed, before applying himself again. 

Childermass took Strange’s hand and wrapped it about the base of Norrell’s prick. “So you do not choke yourself again,” he explained. Strange hummed his understanding, and Norrell squeaked at the added sensation. 

Confident that Strange had achieved at least a basic proficiency, Childermass worked his way back down and rewarded him with his own mouth. 

For a time he lost himself in the repetitive movement, learning the shape and weight of the prick in his mouth, as well as what efforts yielded the greatest responses. From the broken cry Norrell let out, he acknowledged Strange as a quick learner. But he was growing bored, and Norrell would not last long. He pulled away with a popping sound, and Strange did as well, although it seemed he did so mostly to babble, “No, you needn’t stop!”

“But you need to, or we shall leave Mr Norrell behind us. And I’ve more to shew you before this night is through. Too much to spend ourselves on this.”

“Where did you learn these things?” Strange asked as they both stood.

“Where does a man learn any such thing, Mr Strange?”

“Ah. Well, your education is … very thorough.”

Childermass turned from Strange and took Norrell’s face in his hands. “I am a quick study, am I not, Mr Norrell?”

“You are,” Norrell admitted, though Childermass suspected it was mostly to earn a kiss, which Childermass granted and gladly. Norrell shrugged back, though, making a face at the taste of Childermass’ mouth. 

Childermass chuckled. “I’ll own that it is an acquired taste.”

Norrell blinked his small eyes, and then whispered, “Would you like me to acquire it?”

Childermass’ breath stuttered in his chest. Being in control was one thing, but this … he had imagined it a time or two, idly, but he had never considered his employer might offer it for true. 

“I rather think he does,” Strange said behind him.

Mr Norrell got the look of determined focus he sometimes wore when casting particularly difficult spells. He eased himself down to the floor, glancing up at Childermass once he was there. “You shall need to tell me what to do,” he said, looking embarrassed by the very notion. 

“Open your mouth,” Childermass said, unwilling to put Norrell through the trials of foreplay, “and trust me.”

“I do, you know,” Norrell murmured. “I have for years.”

This was all too much. This wasn’t the easy game Childermass had been playing, pleasurable but with no great meaning. Mr Norrell, whether he intended it or not, had raised the stakes. 

When Childermass eased his hips forward and nudged the head of his prick past Norrell’s lips, he had to look away lest he lose control. He caught Strange’s eye as the man leaned against a table, watching them with hungry fascination. He looked as though he knew this interaction was not for him, and that it was a privilege that he was allowed to watch.

Childermass thrust as slowly and gently as he was able, keeping the pace steady. Norrell’s eyes fluttered shut as he concentrated upon his work, and Childermass bit back a groan at the sight of it. They once again fell into the spell, consumed by their actions and by one another, until Childermass felt his own completion begin to build, and reluctantly drew away. Norrell blinked his eyes open, looking startled, as though he had quite forgotten what it was they had been doing until that moment, or that he had found the taste so disagreeable. 

Childermass drew Norrell to his feet and kissed his irritating, inept and often extraordinary employer. Then he drew back and pressed his hand to the opening of Norrell’s shirt. “I believe you are wearing too much, sir. Shall I correct that?”

“I would appreciate it.”

Childermass heard Strange approach and say, “The same might be said of you, sir. May I?”

Childermass looked to Strange, who was still earnest and eager, and looked a little worried that he might be left out of the proceedings entirely. “You may,” Childermass said. “Mr Norrell, would you like to assist Mr Strange?”

“I would,” Norrell said, looking at Strange as though he were a treasure Norrell had not thought to attain. Childermass stamped down any jealousy that look might engender in him. Norrell certainly wasn’t pushing him away, after all.

They fumbled their way out of their clothing. Childermass and Norrell finished at roughly the same time, Childermass due to efficiency, and Norrell due to having less to remove from Strange. He missed one stocking, but no one thought of it. Childermass had been considerably more put together, and Strange’s hands shook as he struggled. Norrell joined his efforts, but was even less useful. In the end, it took all three of them, though mostly Childermass himself, to rid him of the rest of his clothing.

And then there was a blur of exploration. Childermass lost track of whether he was touching Norrell or Strange, which he kissed, and whose fingers loosed the queue in his hair and sent it tumbling about his face. At last he managed to maneuver Norrell between them, and with Strange and Norrell once again lost in kisses, Childermass pressed his lips to the back of Norrell’s neck, then the top of his spine. He shuddered, for there was indeed something more he wished to shew the magicians, but now that he had come to it, it seemed to him a great and dreadful risk.

But Childermass was no stranger to risk, and he had dared a great deal more in service to Mr Norrell. He rose on silent feet and moved over to the candles, which were burning low. He gathered the tallow in his hand and went back to his companions. He trailed his fingers down Norrell’s spine, and they were all of them slick with the tallow. “Sir,” he whispered in Norrell’s ear, “I would like to do something, but you may find it unpleasant. Tell me to, and I shall stop.”

He slid his fingers further down, pressing inward until he found the small pucker of muscle. Mr Norrell stiffened, but did not push him away. Childermass took this as tacit permission, and breached the ring with a single fingertip. 

Mr Norrell hissed, his face screwed up as though he was not certain whether he enjoyed this or not. Mr Strange let out a harsh groan when he realized what Childermass was about, then reached down, hooked a hand behind Norrell’s knee, and drew it up. Norrell very nearly overbalanced, and clung to Strange’s shoulders tightly as the other magician urged him to wrap his leg about Strange’s hips. This proved more of a challenge than Strange had perhaps anticipated, given their height differences. 

Childermass was feeling generous, and whispered into Norrell’s ear, “Would you like to hold onto Mr Strange while I see to you, sir?”

Norrell gulped and nodded, not taking his eyes from Strange’s. Childermass looked to Strange, and then wrapped an arm about Norrell’s waist. With a soft grunt, he lifted the small man off his feet, and Strange caught his other leg, drawing them both up about his waist. Norrell gasped as he and Strange were pressed tight as they could be, and Strange’s prick bumped Childermass’ knuckles where he pushed his finger into Mr Norrell.

The spread of Mr Norrell’s legs made it easier for Childermass to drive his finger deeper in, using his body to bolster Norrell’s position and take some of the strain off Strange. Strange and Norrell were kissing hard and sloppy, and as Childermass worked he peppered kisses to their throats until Strange caught his mouth and kissed him in a most ungentlemanly way, his tongue thrusting as deliberately as his prick. 

Childermass drew away from him and kissed Mr Norrell lest he feel neglected, even as he pressed the tip of a second finger to his opening. Norrell whined into his mouth as he was breached, squirming in Strange’s grasp, but was held tight and open.

“Breathe through it, Mr Norrell,” Childermass whispered to him.

“I’ve no idea why anyone would enjoy this,” Norrell complained.

Childermass knew some incentive was in order, and thought he had enough leverage to get at it. He twisted his hand at an awkward angle until he found the bump that long ago some obliging sailor had shewed him. Norrell let out a wail of shock and pleasure, and rocked back against Childermass’ hand. “That is why, sir,” Childermass said, and pressed it again and again, using the distraction to scissor his fingers and then add a third. Norrell gasped and wriggled, trying to get more friction and more pressure all at once. “I am grateful to see you appreciate it.”

Childermass kept at him until Norrell’s shifting gave way to a boneless sort of ecstasy, and the the clench of him fluttered and relaxed. Childermass was panting out his desire, but he knew, much though he was loath to admit it, that Norrell was still looking at Strange as though he had hung the moon. Childermass did not need twenty-six years of service to understand what it was that Norrell wanted; what he had wanted for years, ever since Jonathan Strange had sauntered into their lives and lit Mr Norrell up like a holiday bonfire. 

Childermass shook his head, but took hold of Strange’s prick with his free hand. Strange gasped and looked at him with wide eyes.

“If you hurt him,” Childermass warned, “I shall do the same to you.”

Strange nodded to him, a look of worry and care settling over him. Perhaps he understood the honor he was being given, or perhaps he was simply worried about his own hide. Childermass was not certain, but whichever it was Childermass believed he would indeed take care.

He guided Strange’s prick to the place where his fingers were buried in Norrell’s body. He drew them out and coated Strange in the rest of the tallow. Norrell’s breath was short in anticipation, and as Strange lined himself up, every breath Norrell took was a soft whimper. Childermass felt the head of Strange’s prick snug up against Norrell’s opening, and then slide past it. 

Norrell cried out, his head falling back against Childermass’ shoulder and his knuckles going white where they clung to Strange. He looked transfixed, as one lost to visions. Childermass pressed his lips to Norrell’s slack mouth, enjoying how pliant it was. He hadn’t realized how closely he’d crowded until he felt his own prick brushing against Strange’s and nudging against the stretched rim of Norrell’s hole. 

Norrell’s eyes snapped to Childermass’ and he whispered, “John.” Childermass gasped at the sound of his Christian name on his employer’s lips, a sound he had heard so few times he would not need a full hand to count them. “John, I am not certain I can …”

Childermass stroked Norrell’s cheek and said, “Nor are you expected to.” He thought about it for a moment, then took the risk of whispering, “Gilbert.” 

He steered them toward the nearest wall, Strange murmuring his protests at being made to stop his movements. Then Childermass slipped out from behind Norrell and let the wall support him, and Strange was content once more. Childermass watched as he pressed his forehead to Norrell’s, their eyes locked and lost in one another. Norrell touched Strange’s face, and Strange kissed him softly as he moved between his legs with a slow and easy purpose. He whispered something, and Norrell’s smile pulled on strings in Childermass’ heart he had thought plucked out. 

Childermass shook his head hard against it, and then moved to the candles once more. He gathered tallow and returned, pressing up against Strange’s back and sliding a finger into him without preamble. 

“Oh!” Strange said. 

“Objections, Mr Strange?” Childermass asked.

Strange blinked, then relaxed his body back a bit. “None at all, Mr Childermass. I would only request only that you go slowly. This is all rather new to me.”

Childermass watched for a second the easy way Strange moved inside Norrell, and the way Norrell rested his head against the wall and looked at them both with a perfect trust Childermass rarely saw on his face. That he was enjoying himself was certain, and whatever discomfort he might have suffered was quite forgotten.

“You are in good hands, sir,” he told Strange, and meant it. For that moment, with Strange holding Mr Norrell as though he were precious, Childermass saw a bit of what Norrell saw in Strange. He was a decent man beneath the arrogance and the self-absorption; an idiot, but a decent man.

It was with a bit more care that he pumped his finger in Strange, and then added another. Strange’s arse clenched with every lazy thrust into Norrell, so Childermass had to time his own strokes to accompany the movement. It was no great challenge, and soon enough Strange seemed relaxed and humming in enjoyment.

“This shall sting a bit,” Childermass said. “Spread your legs as you can.”

“I can’t do much,” Strange warned, easing his heels out a bit as Childermass helped take Norrell’s weight.

Strange was right: it wasn’t much, but Childermass judged it enough and lined himself up. “Breathe out, sir,” he said. Upon the noisy exhale Childermass pressed himself forward.

The tightness was an old memory, intense as it ever was. Strange’s rasping breaths and the sudden stillness of his hips made Norrell blink at both of them. “Jonathan?” he asked.

“Give me a moment,” Strange gasped. “It’s just a bit larger than I had expected.”

“Breathe through it,” Norrell told him, repeating Childermass’ advice as though it was his own.

Strange let out a shaky laugh, but he did seem to relax a bit. When Childermass judged him sufficiently unwound, he asked, “Shall we, Mr Strange, Mr Norrell?”

He did not wait for permission, but thrust hard, making Strange shout and thrust as well. Childermass repeated the gesture, establishing an unrelenting rhythm into Strange. Strange, following Childermass’ lead, was no longer quite as gentle in his movements, rocking into Norrell with a hard push that drove him back against the wall and made him cry out in shocked pleasure. Childermass watched, rapt, as Strange hunched over and kissed Norrell with fumbling lips as his movements sped. Norrell clung to him desperately, one hand even grasping at Childermass’ shoulder. His legs pressed to Childermass’ belly hard enough Childermass could feel when his toes began to curl. Each inhalation he drew rasped, and each exhalation was a high, helpless cry.

Childermass felt his own completion, which had seemed so distant for so much of their activities, suddenly drawing close. Strange was a desperate heat about him, shoving back against him every bit as much as he was thrusting forward into Norrell. He was panting hard, a soft counterpoint to the racket Norrell was making.

“Mr Norrell,” Strange gasped, “Gilbert, I can’t …”

Childermass knew the sound of a man on the edge of a fall, and reached between them, quick and smooth as an eel, to grasp Mr Norrell’s prick and jerk it with rough strokes. Norrell’s eyes went as wide as Childermass had ever seen them, and after only three hard strokes, timed to coincide with the deepest thrust inside him, he released a keen of pleasure. He shook as he came undone, and Childermass’ hand was slicked with his release. 

As Norrell shuddered, Strange groaned loudly as his movements became erratic. Childermass felt him spasm as he followed Mr Norrell down, and Childermass himself had to bite Strange’s shoulder lest he shout the house down upon his own completion. His knees gave out and he slid out of Strange and to the floor, joined shortly by the others. They were each of them a mess, Childermass’ hair in wild disarray, Strange with an angry red mark upon his shoulder, and Norrell curled limply in Strange’s arms. 

Childermass believed himself to be the first to come to his senses, for he realized as he sat there what a dangerous situation this truly was. That Norrell might react badly seemed to him probable, and Strange no less so, for one was married and the other prone to excitement. Childermass’ own mastery of the situation was in tatters. He had no notion how he might prevent Strange from leaving forever or Norrell from dismissing him in mortification. His mind rushed through all possible solutions, each more dire than the last. If he could not prevent all ill-effects, there was a possibility of damage control. 

Just then, Strange looked up at him, his eyes clear and his expression quiet. Norrell had looked at neither of them, but Childermass could see his mounting horror plainly in the way his hands tightened upon Strange’s arms. He noted only distantly that Strange was still inside him, though he was likely to slip out once he had softened sufficiently.

“Sir,” Childermass began, but had no idea what to say next.

To his great surprize, Strange smiled an ironical smile at him, and stroked a hand against Norrell’s hair. “Well,” he said, “I must say that the spell was successful, although its effects are perhaps too unpredictable to recommend its common use.”

“Mr Strange …” Norrell said, sounding most wretched.

“Mr Norrell,” said Strange, “do not fear. One imagines such occurrences are not unheard of in magical study, and I daresay a sight more enjoyable than other potential complications. We could not help ourselves, sir. I would hate to see our friendship dissolve itself over such a thing as this.”

Norrell raised his head, the momentary flash of disappointment upon his face concealed well by the surprize of a pardoned man. “No,” he said, “I should not wish that either.”

“Excellent,” said Strange. “Shall I see you tomorrow, then? I find myself quite exhausted.”

“You are welcome to make use of a room here, if you’d care to,” Norrell said, then blushed as he realized that the implications of such an invitation had quite changed. “At least until we have found a means of retrieving your shirt and jacket.”

Strange blinked, as though he had quite forgot he had lost them to the magic. He cast a glance at the clear mark of teeth upon his shoulder and fingers at his hips. Yet still he did not react poorly, nor comport himself in any way that might upset the delicate balance they had all established. “Perhaps that would be for the best,” he said. “If we cannot summon my shirt, I would be grateful, Childermass, if I might make use of a shirt and waistcoat from your wardrobe.”

“You may,” Childermass said. He realized that he had very much underestimated Jonathan Strange, though he knew not how. Strange’s shallowness had seemed so clear to him that he had never imagined he might hide greater depths. His gratitude came forth in the offer, “And I can fetch you a bandage for your shoulder. I do not think I broke the skin, but it is best to take care of such things.”

Strange offered his thanks, but after that none of them seemed to find the will to move. Childermass thought that Norrell was savoring, committing the feeling and shape of Strange to memory, so intent was the expression on his face. Strange himself looked terribly fond of them both. 

And Childermass did not know what to think, or how to respond. Remaining still seemed the best option for once, as moving would break the spell of hazy satisfaction which still seemed to hang about them. After a moment, he found Mr Norrell’s hand and took it without meeting his gaze. Strange’s fingers rested lightly upon the back of his hand after a moment, brushing with a steady rhythm that matched his fingers in Norrell’s hair.

Mr Norrell squeezed Childermass’ fingers, lightly but definitely. Childermass only just restrained the sight of relief, and very much restrained whatever other feelings might have accompanied that brief clasp. They would manage, if only through sheer stubborn determination that it be so. There would be challenges, not least of which would be removing the marks upon Strange to a sufficient degree that he might return to his wife without suspicion, but those could be met. They none of them, he thought, would get quite what they wanted, but they none of them would be left miserable either.

They would manage.


End file.
